The Wizarding World of OMFG IT’S GLORIOUS.

So I haven’t written on here in awhile.

Mostly it’s because life gets busy and sofas get progressively more comfy the more you sit on them. But there’s another reason.

I’ve been places. Glorious places.

Places where Butterbeer flows like water. Where dragons lurk and wands swish through the air like a Nimbus 2000.

I’m talking the Wizarding World of Harry Potter you filthy muggles.

And Katie and I went there because we totally got our acceptance letters to Hogwarts.

You see, we’ve been here before when they unveiled the Hogwarts/Hogsmeade attraction. But they’ve added something new. Something wonderful, neigh, magical. They added Diagon Alley WHICH IS ACCESSIBLE THROUGH THE HOGWARTS F@#KING EXPRESS.

Yeah. Shit got real for me.

Let’s set the stage.

It’s hot. Like, Florida hot. I walk through the thickets of fanny-pack wearing tourists leaving behind the fragrant trail of SPF 10,000 for Katie to follow. I stop for nothing, for I am on a mission. Through the crowd, I see what appears to be London. I’m so close, I think to myself. I yell at Katie to move her short legs faster. She looks at me with a stare that proves the Crucio curse is child’s play. Then proceeds to walk slower.

No matter. We’re there.


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We walk through the unmarked arch, and see the bricks pulled back.

Hagrid, you sneaky bastard with your umbrella wand. You’ve left the entrance open.

I round the corner and literally have the breath stolen from me. I’m here. It’s real. These stupid children better get the hell out of my way.

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Gringotts. With a dragon. That breaths real fire. That also houses the coolest ride I’ve ever been on.

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If happy memories were made of gold coins, this swarthy bastard still wouldn’t have shit on me.

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Almost all of the shops were real. You could enter them. Buy wands, chocolate frogs and time-turners.

I bought Voldemort’s wand because I have an accelerated will to power and am filled with the belief that you will all serve me in the end.

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We did other things in Orlando, but they don’t matter. All I can remember is walking through the pages of my childhood as John Williams writes the score of my soul.

 

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